Final Homily as Rector of the Cathedral

Sunday, June 20 - XIII Sunday Ord Time

In forty-one years as a Priest, it was the tenth time I had a meeting like the one I had with Bishop McManus a month ago. “Monsignor,” he began, “I’d like to speak with you about a personnel matter.” I interrupted him at that point and said, “Bishop, I have never said no to anything, and I never asked for anything either. So whatever you are about to ask, I will embrace it with joy.”

And so I am off, from this beloved Cathedral to Saint Cecilia’s in Leominster, what some call “The Cathedral of the North.” And I will embrace my tenth flock with the same joy that has filled my heart with every new assignment.

Admittedly, especially when I look at you, there is also a deep sadness in saying goodbye to this Cathedral community for the second time. In a way, it is not really goodbye, however, for this Cathedral Church will always be my home, as it is yours. But I will leave a piece of my heart with you, whom I have come to love and admire. Thank you for all the ways in which you have inspired me to be a better priest. And remember, when a priest does something to lead you closer to Christ, it is only because he got out of the way and let the Lord work his grace.

And for whatever ways I may not have been successful in that task, I ask for your forgiveness. I am so very proud of what God has accomplished through us in this holy place, for we are worthy of the great heritage with which God has endowed us.

When Father John J. Power founded this Church in 1866, Worcester had been a city for only eighteen years. President Lincoln had been killed by an assassin’s bullet just a year before and Saint John’s Church was celebrating its thirtieth anniversary. The “new immigrants” were predominantly from Ireland and Sweden, including my great-grandparents, Honorah Lynch and Stephen Loughlin, who would be married in the Cathedral eighteen years later.

You and I have become a part of that history.  And beginning next week, a good and holy priest, Father Hugo Cano will join with Father Diego Buriticá in helping you to write the next chapter.

For we are so very different today than we were in Fr Power’s say, but in a remarkable way, we are very much the same. Our “new immigrants” are now predominantly from Latin America and West Africa and their energy, spirit and faith help us to evangelize an increasingly secularized American culture. While 38% of our city self-identifies as Catholic, close to 50% describe themselves as having no religion at all. 

Of all the places that my almost forty years of priesthood had led me, this Cathedral Church has always been the center.  I’ve lived and worked in Rome, in Washington and in Boston for protracted periods of time, but Saint Paul’s on High Street is the place I always come back to. Maybe it has something to do with a line from W.C. Fields: “Home, is where they always have to take you back.”

———-

When Father John J. Power laid the corner stone of this great Church, 152 years ago this week, Worcester had been a city for only eighteen years. President Lincoln had been killed by an assassin’s bullet just a year before and Saint John’s Church was celebrating its thirtieth anniversary.

As Worcester’s young sons went off to die in the First World War, Father Goggin offered the Perfect Sacrifice in this place for their safety and safe return.

As we suffered the devastation of the Great Depression, the rich and the poor alike ascended Chatham street to beg God to show them a way to get through it all, as Father McGann received them, and led the people in feeding and clothing them in their need.

As the Second World War sent our sons to fight in Germany, Japan, Italy and the South pacific, Father Slattery and Monsignor Kavanagh inspired the people to light candles for them and offer endless prayers for the defeat of Evil and the triumph of the Good.

As Father Elwood and the same Monsignor Kavanaugh before him, welcomed a new Diocese and a new Bishop Wright, who like his successors, Bishops Flanagan and Harrington, Riley and McManus, would gather the people of Worcester to the Cathedra in this Church and weave their voices into one holy Catholic and Apostolic Faith, a song whose strains perdure to this very day.

As on the day President Kennedy was assassinated, and Monsignor Daley welcomed the overflowing masses to enter these doors, weeping in sorrow at the death of the young President in whom they had placed such hope.

Then through the chaotic 60’s and the Vietnam War, Father Burke and his associates tried to help people to make sense of it all and to beg God to give us some peace.

And then came Father Kelleher and Father Manahan and his Monsignor Mongelluzzo. And Father Reidy, Monsignor Johnson and me. And now Father Hugo Cano takes up the reigns as the Rector of the Cathedral Church of Saint Paul.

God bless him, and you. For what God has begun so well in you, he will, most assuredly, bring to a glorious conclusion.

God bless you!

RESOURCES for Altar Servers, Greeters/Ushers and Ministers of the Liturgical Environment

FOR ALTAR SERVERS

Diocesan Guidelines for Altar Servers (Lectors and Extraordinary Ministers of Holy Communion) can be accessed by clicking this link.

Guide for Servers, by Liturgy Training publications can be ordered by clicking this link.    It's also available in Spanish.

FOR MINISTERS OF THE LITURGICAL ENVIRONMENT

Built of Living Stones, the USCCB guideline for liturgical art and architecture can be downloaded by clicking this link.

FOR USHERS AND GREETERS

Guide for Greeters, Ushers and Ministers of Hospitality, by Liturgy Training Publications can be ordered by clicking this link.     It is also available in Spanish. 

FOR EVERYONE

Monsignor Moroney's popular guide to the Mass is available on AMAZON by clicking this link.

On Shepherding...

 It’s dark, and the sheep are vulnerable. They’re huddled together inside the sheep pen, sleeping soundly. I’m not sure what sheep count when they are falling sleep, but they are, in any case, fast asleep, trundled like little bundles of white wool.

They sleep so soundly because of the ingenuity of the shepherd boy, who, in an attempt to keep the sheep together, has constructed an enclosure by rolling big rocks in a circle, with a four foot opening at one end. He learned this trick from his big brother, who used to be the shepherd boy and he learned it from his father. Shepherds have been passing down this trick for keeping sheep together since the time of Jesus.

Which is why Jesus talks about it so much: the rocks which make up the walls and the opening, which he calls the sheep-gate.

Of course it is not, properly speaking, a gate at all. It’s just a bunch of rocks, and the shepherd boy himself serves as the sheep-gate. Once all the sheep are inside, he lays down across the opening his head on one rock and his feet on the other. That way, if a sheep tries to escape, he would have to walk over the shepherd boy and wake him up. And if a wolf tries to get in, it is over the body of the shepherd.

And that’s why, just a few weeks before Bishop McManus will ordain four of our brothers as priests, the Church gives us this passage to reflect on. For that shepherd boy is providing an example for every priest of what he’s being ordained for. Like Jesus, the Good Shepherd, he is called to, quite literally, lay down his life for the sheep. 

Jesus, the Good Shepherd, the great High Priest who is the model for every Shepherd’s heart, quite literally, laid down his life upon the Altar of the Cross for love of the Flock.

And when we go to or watch the stream of the ordinations in just a few weeks, we will hear these men promise to do just that.

First, they promise obedience and respect. Like the young shepherd who lays down to become a sheep-gate, those to be ordained will kneel before the Bishop and place their hands in his. He will look them right in the eye and ask each one whether he is willing to promise obedience and respect, not just to him, but to his unknown successors as well. 

Will you go, not where you choose, but where the Church will send you? Will you preach not yourself or your own bright ideas, but Christ Jesus, in season and out, whether they acclaim or deride you.

Will you celebrate the sacraments faithfully, not even praying in your own words, but with the ancient words and rites the Church has passed down to you? Will you forgive sins and anoint the sick (often at two o’Clock in the morning), not in your own name, but in the name of Christ, the High Priest, showing his gentleness and compassion?

Will you pray for the flock God places in your care, in the middle of the night and in the noonday sun, in public and in the quiet of your room? Will you, in the words of the Ordination rite “beg God’s mercy upon the people entrusted to your care by observing the command to pray without ceasing?” 

Will you offer the perfect sacrifice of Christ upon the altar, and join to it your life and the lives of those you shepherd? Will you be the good shepherd, laying down your life lest the sheep stray or the wolf get in the door?

And through the many years, the man, the very human man who raises a Chalice in perfect sacrifice for all the days to come, will imperfectly answer each of those questions. Some days he will lay down his life with the fervor of a young martyr, and on others he may seek his own advantage. Some days he will be the very compassion of Christ and on others irascible and narcissistic. For the shepherds God chooses for you are not saints or demigods, but, as Saint Paul reminds us, “men chosen from among men,” each given the inestimable joy of serving as the fragile vessel through which Christ continues to act in his Church.

For while the priest may pour the water, it is Christ who baptizes. And while the priest may give the penance, it is Christ who forgives sins. While the priest may make the sign of the cross, it is Christ who blesses, the priest holding the host in his hands, but Christ who gives us his flesh as food for the journey

I love this time of year, beginning with the Renewal of Priestly Promises at the Chrism Mass and soon to include Ordinations to the Diaconate and Priesthood. For in between, God gives each Priest the chance to reflect on what he’s called to be, and what he may have become.

____

Just yesterday I received a box from Tally’s Church Supply. It’s my gift to one of the ordinands in the form of an old chalice, re-plated in gold for his First Mass. The chalice was first raised at an Altar back in the 1950’s by a newly ordained priest, the Chrism still fresh on his hands. But through the years, as the aging Priest moved from assignment to assignment, the patina discolored and the chalice picked up its share of nicks and scratches.

Now the chalice is fresh and new, ready to be raised again by young and newly anointed hands in offering the great Sacrifice of Praise which is the center of our lives, as we pray that God give to this good new Priest the spirit of the parson of whom Chaucer wrote so many years ago:

“Christe’s lore and his apostles twelve he taught,

but first he followed it himself.”

Seeing God Face to Face

You remember what it was like last year at this time? For weeks and months on end you were unable to see your mother, your brother or your best friend.

Oh, sure, you could chat with them on Zoom, but that just wasn’t the same. Face to screen is not the same thing as face to face.

I can remember in late summer, waiting outside a sandwich shop in West Stockbridge waiting to see my oldest and best friend for the first time in six months. I remember just sitting there and wondering what it would be like, after six months, to see his face again, or at least his eyes above the blue surgical mask. And it was so good to see him.

We long to see the face of the those whom we love…face to face.

That’s how we long to see the face of God. The Hebrew word for face is pānîm, and it’s used in reference to seeing the face of God over a hundred times in the Old Testament. For how much we long to see God’s face.

And it’s not a vain hope, for we can call God “you” —- he has a face and we can enter into a relationship with him. As our beloved Pope emeritus reminds us, 

God is certainly above all things, but still he talks to us, he listens to us, he sees us, he speaks to us, he makes a covenant, he is capable of love.¹

In 1979, archaeologists excavating a tomb near Jerusalem discovered two small silver scrolls that recorded a priestly blessing from the sixth book of Numbers. The scrolls were dated to the 7th century B.C., making them the oldest written Scriptures we have ever found. 

These ancient silver scrolls preserved an even more ancient blessing, which since Aaron has been prayed by priests over their people:

May the Lord Bless you and keep you. 

May the Lord make his face to shine on you, 

and be gracious to you. 

May the Lord uncover his face to you and bring you peace.²

May the Lord make his face to shine upon you…may he uncover his face to you and bring you peace!  It’s an answer to the Responsorial refrain we sang just this morning: “Lord, let your face shine on us.”

That’s why we read in the Book of Exodus, “The Lord used to speak to Moses face to face, as a man speaks to his friend.”³ For this was a foreshadowing of what we would experience in Jesus, in whom the search for the face of God is at an end…in him we see and touch and even consume all there is to know and experience about God, “the sum total of Revelation.”⁴

Again, to our beloved emeritus:

Jesus shows us God’s face and makes God’s name known to us. In the Priestly Prayer at the Last Supper he says to the Father: “I have manifested your name to them...I made known to them your name”⁵…For “whoever sees him, sees the Father,”⁶ as he said to Philip.⁷ 

So….we long to see God’s face. We long to see, Jesus, who introduces us to the Father when he teaches us the Lord’s Prayer, and (as I will say in a few minutes) “we dare to call him Father.” The word for Father in Hebrew, which Jesus would have used, is Abba.  Just like daddy, or pappa. Abba!

Which brings me to a story I may have told you already, but, no matter, it gets better each time I tell it.

It goes back more than forty years, when I was with two of my brother seminarians on an old Arab bus bumping along a dusty backroad from Tiberius to Jerusalem. 

At the heart of the story is a five year old boy who climbed onto the bus, holding the hand of his father.  Father and son were Hasidim (good orthodox Jews, who only spoke Hebrew) and they each dressed identically, with dark pants, white buttoned shirts, black hats with their ultra-orthodox curls on either side and the little tassels from their prayer shawls hanging below their waists.  The father spoke to the boy softly in Hebrew while they moved to stand in the back of the bus, all the seats having now been taken.

As we continued to bump along in the old school bus, half the Israeli countryside crammed into that little aisle, including young soldiers with automatic weapons slung over their shoulders and finally an old man with a goat.  Yes, a goat, which stood just to my right in the aisle.

When the little Hasidim boy at the back of the bus spotted the goat, his eyes grew big as saucers, and overcome with curiosity he pulled his hand from his father’s and fought his way down the aisle as only a five-year-old can do.  When he got to the goat he stared, then smiled (I half expected the goat to smile back) and cautiously began to play with the goats beard, then pet him on the head and then conduct an extended conversation with him in their native Hebrew.

But, as five-year-olds do, he soon grew bored with his new adventure, so he turned to go back to him father, who had been smiling at him during the whole course of this wild adventure.  But the boy couldn’t see his father from way down there near the goat.  All he could see were the big Israeli soldiers with their guns, and the funny looking blind man with his lunchbox and the young Americans all staring at him and he panicked, yelling at the top of his lungs “Abba!  Abba!  Abba!”

He was desperate to see the face of his Father, who pushed through the crowd and swept him up in his arms. And when the little boy saw Abba’s face through his years, he began to giggle.

As we will, on that blessed last day, when we shall see the Lord, bask in the light of his glory, and see him face to face.

————————

1 - Benedict XVI, 16 January 2013.

2 - Num 6:24-26.

3 - Exodus 33:11.

4 - Dei Verbum, no. 2.

5 - cf. Jn 17:6; 6, 26.

6- cf. Jn 14:9.

7 - Benedict XVI, 16 January 2013.

Faith: Where the Feeble Senses Fail

On the day I made my First Communion, Saturday, June 4, 1960 my Godparents, Nora and George, gave me this little prayer book. It still looks pretty good for a a sixty-one year old book.

And this book taught me a very important lesson. On page 55, there’s a picture of the Priest holding up the host, entitled “The Changing of the Bread.”  Here is what it says: “This is the holiest part of the Mass. The priest first changes the bread into the living body of Jesus. He uses the same words Jesus used. He then raises the Sacred Host over his head for you to see. It is really Jesus. Look at it and say: “My Lord and my God.”

And I learned, a few years later, where those words came from. You heard them too, just a few minutes ago. They are the words spoken by Thomas when he touched the wounds of Jesus and realized that it is not a ghost he is seeing, but “My Lord and my God.”

Thomas had a hard time believing it was the Lord without being able to see and touch him. “Unless I see in his hands the print of the nails, and place my finger in the mark of the nails, and place my hand in his side, I will not believe,” he stubbornly insisted.

But then, eight days later, Jesus again appears to his disciples in the upper room, including even Thomas.  And Jesus says to him: "Put your finger here, and see my hands; and put out your hand, and place it into my side; do not be faithless, but believing.”   

And then Thomas says it: the same words little Jimmy learned to say on the day of his First Communion: “My Lord and my God!”

And then Jesus, thinking of little Jimmy, says the last words to Thomas in today’s Gospel ‘You have believed, Thomas because you have seen me. Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe.’

Saint Thomas Aquinas was addressing the same reality when he wrote the famous Catholic hymn we call the Pange Lingua, or the Tantum ergo. You probably know the most famous stanza by heart, even in Latin:

Tantum ergo Sacramentum

Hence so greatly the Sacrament

Veneremur cernui:

Let us venerate with heads bowed

Et antiquum documentum

And let the old practice

Novo cedat ritui:

Give way to a new rite;

Præstet fides supplementum

Let faith supply or supplement or make up for

Sensuum defectui.

How the senses fail.

Or, as the old English translation puts it:

Faith for all defects supplying,

Where the feeble senses fail.

Senses fail. Usually our senses do a good job. Saint Thomas (the one from Aquino) understood this. In his famous Summa Theologica, he describes both exterior and interior “sensitive faculties.” There are five exterior senses (sight, hearing, smell, taste, and touch). But then he describes four interior senses: consciousness (or common sense), imagination, instinct and memory.

Now in a few minutes we will recite the Creed, the summary of what we believe has been revealed to us by God. We will say that we believe in God, although we have not seen him. And we will profess that we believe that he made heaven and earth, and all things visible and invisible. Even though, by definition, we have not see the invisible things (namely angels and demons). We have not seen, but we still believe! We have not touched, but we still believe!

And so we go back to Jesus’ last words to Thomas: ‘You have believed, Thomas because you have seen me. Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe.’ And we believe because we have Faith. This same faith which Saint Paul today calls our victory over the world.

In the Letter to the Hebrews we read the definition of Faith: “Faith is the realization of what is hoped for and evidence of things not seen.”

Such Faith is a gratuitous gift of God’s grace, and the origin and essence of that Faith is in knowing the Lord Jesus way down deep inside.  

- the same Jesus who walked into the room where the doors were locked and said to them, “Peace be with you.”

- the same Jesus who walks through all the doors we have locked with our fears, our terrors and our sins….who walks into our hearts and says, “Peace be with you.”

 and our the terrors 

- The same Jesus you first knew as a little child, kneeling beside the bed, trying to remember which shoulder to touch with the sign of the cross.

- The same Jesus who delivered you from all the real and imagined fears of adolescent selfishness and who taught you to love and to laugh and to forgive.

- The same Jesus who showed you a path he had laid out just for you and introduced you to all those people he wanted to you to love.

- The same Jesus who gives you meaning and satisfaction and purpose and direction.

- The same Jesus who rescues you, again and again, from your selfishness, foolishness and sin.

- The same Jesus who died for you on that Cross and rose triumphant from the tomb that you might never really fear death again.

-The same Jesus who will return in glory to judge the living and the dead and who will raise up your mortal body from the tomb.

- The same Jesus whom we see with our hearts and touch with our souls when the priest raises up a little piece of bread, consecrated and transformed into his Body.

- The same Jesus whom we approach, trembling with Thomas and with all the Church, whom we look upon and touch and say: “My Lord and my God.”

Easter Homily

A great silence lay heavy upon the earth, as in the darkness of a tomb, thick with death, with ancient sin and crippling despair, It seemed that all was lost, that Satan’s empty show and fear and pain and loss has won the day.

A great silence lay upon the earth, as they walked in the darkness to his tomb with vials of oil to anoint a dead body on that awful, awful night.

It’s not unlike the dark silence of so many days in the dark pandemic year just past. A year so like the darkness of the tomb, whose shadows fill us with dread and make us tremble.

But the great good news of this Easter morn is that the tomb was empty!  And therein lies the mystery and meaning of our lives.

In the emptiness of that tomb, every question is answered, for those whose ears will hear.

In the emptiness of that tomb, every doubt is washed away, for those whose hearts will believe. 

In the emptiness of that tomb, every fear and sin is buried, for those who are willing to rise with Christ.

For from the darkness of our selfishness.  

From the pitch blackness of war and violence,

From the blindness of sin and rebellion,

a light rose from that tomb,

that will never be extinguished,

that will never die!

That light is the Son of the Living God,

through whom this world and time itself were made,

in whom we live and move and have our being.

He was made flesh for us,

a weak and little baby in the arms of his Virgin mother,

he let go of his power as God,

and put on our human flesh,

to be God and man, and to teach us how to love.

And then he taught us,

to always take the last place,

to seek out and care for the poor,

to pick up our crosses,

to seek only holiness and love.

And when, finally,

his time had come,

he suffered and died for us,

he was nailed to a cross,

opening his arms in an everlasting sign

of his eternal love.

And when they buried him in the tomb,

that cold and scary Friday night,

most of them thought the story was over.

That he was dead, and would stay that way.

But on the Easter morning,

the light pierced the darkness,

and nothing else would ever really matter again.

Only the mystery of this Easter morning:

To die to myself,

and to be born to him alone.

To love unto death,

and to rise to eternal glory.

How God Creates a Clean Heart...

“Create a clean heart in me, O God,”¹ the Psalmist prays. But how does that happen. By loving the poor, forgiving, sacrificing…. loving purely, without any thought of what’s in it for us…those are surely ways to a clean heart. By going to confession. That works. But none of these are the surest way by which God makes our hearts clean.

The surest way to a clean heart is hinted at in the Book of Revelation when we read that the Saints have washed their robes in the Blood of the Lamb. Robes that become sparkling white when washed in the Blood of the Lamb. The Blood of the Lamb. The Blood of Jesus.

And where does Jesus’s blood flow from?  It flowed from the heart that beat within his very human chest. A Sacred Heart, which sometimes broke.

The Gospels tell us of two times the Lord’s heart broke when he went to visit his friends in Bethany. You rememeber the famous times, when, a few weeks before today’s Gospel, Jesus witnesses the dead body of his friend Lazarus.  He trembled, the Gospels tell us. The Lord trembled, and then he wept. Not sniffled. Not cried, But wept. For weeping is a sign of a broken heart.

And in today’s Gospel, back at Lazarus’ house, the Lord’s heart breaks again, as he contemplates the suffering and death he is about to endure.

 ”I am troubled.” he tells his disciples in a remarkable admission. And what troubles him is the suffering he knows he will soon endure. The scourging, the nails and the excruciating death. And, perhaps even worse, the rejection, the condemnation and the execution of their wrath.

“What should I say?” he blurts out, giving us a window into the storm of agony which inflicts his heart.  “What should I say?” Father, save me from this hour?' But it was for this very purpose that I came to this hour.” 

Jesus’ heart is negotiating with itself, the way human hearts do. This or that? Saint Paul describes what’s going on:

"In the days when Christ Jesus was in the flesh, he offered prayers and supplications with loud cries and tears. Son though he was, he learned obedience from what he suffered."

And, of course, in the end Jesus chooses obedient love, faithful love: “Father, glorify your name.” And he opens his arms on the Cross. He wills to become the stone rejected by the builders, the suffering servant and the grain of wheat, crushed and buried for love of us and the glory of God’s name.

✴︎

This past week we celebrated the feast of the Great Saint Patrick. Not the Patrick of shamrocks or witty cards, but the Patrick of deep and struggling faith.

In his Confessions he writes about one of the most important turning points of his life. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. Having escaped his enslavement to the Irish, he has returned home, where his family begs him to stay. But then he has a vision of a letter being read to him by an Irish saint, saying: “We ask you, holy boy, to come back and walk among us.”

Patrick tells us that the vision cut him to the heart. For he was torn between answering God’s call to convert the Irish (a life which promised frustration, suffering and exhaustion), or living a nice comfortable life back home with his family. So he prayed. And this is how he described it:

“deep within me…I heard this: He who has laid down his own life for you is speaking in you. And I was thus awakened rejoicing greatly. And again, I saw him Praying within me,”

Who did he see praying within him? “He who had laid down his life for you,” the Lord was praying within him.  He goes on:

“and I looked…way down deep inside my body…and there he was praying earnestly within me with groans…”²

As Patrick was agonizing, struggling to find the strength to be faithful, he was not alone. But rather deep within his heard, Christ was praying alongside him. The one whose heart was troubled was right there groaning along with Patrick…the one who knew temptation and fear and dread, was as close to Patrick in his agony as he had ever been, with (as Patrick wrote) “unspeakable groans which could not be expressed in words.”

And you know just what Patrick was talking about.

✴︎

Think back to the most desperate moment in your life. The time you were convinced you did not have the strength to do the right thing. The Cross was too heavy, the fear was too great and you knelt there bleeding from the eyes with a broken heart.

Maybe it was the day you were betrayed, or you had to bury the one so cruelly taken from you. Maybe it was when everyone else believed the lie about you and scoffed and whispered behind your back. Maybe it was when they told it was malignant and terminal and all that stood between you and the grave was suffering. Maybe it was…

And there you knelt, like Patrick, with a knife in your heart. And it hurt like nothing else had ever hurt before.

But at that moment, whether it was yesterday, tomorrow or even today…like Patrick, you were not alone. For the one who wept blood in the Garden of Gethsemane, knew what it meant to have a troubled heart, to doubt, to tremble from the inside out in fear…

And he is the faithful God of infinite love, the Son obedient unto death out of love for us, the Lord who walks his Passion with us when we are too little or too weak or too poor or in too much pain. He walks there beside us and he strengthens us, for he is never so close to us as in his Passion and Cross. 

For here is the great mystery of our lives: that “suffering is the inner side of love…”³

So the next time your heart is broken and you weep the prayer of suffering, look to your side and you will see Christ there, kneeling beside you, joining your Passion to his own.

And remember the advice once offered to us by St. Francis de Sales:

“The everlasting God has, in his wisdom, foreseen from all eternity the cross he now presents to you as a gift from his inmost heart. He has gazed at with his all-knowing eyes…to see that it be not one inch too large, not one ounce too heavy for you.

He has blessed it…taken one last glance at you and your courage….and sent this cross to you from heaven — a special greeting from God just to you — a gift of his all-merciful love.”

For that’s how God creates a clean heart.

_____________

1 - Psalm 51: 12a.

2 - Confessio, part II, nos. 125 and 140, in Patrick: The Pilgrim Apostle of Ireland, by Maíre B. de Paor (Regan Books, 1998).

3 - Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger to Peter Seewald.